


Honey, let's get married

by 80sjuicebox



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Knight!Tybalt, M/M, Prince!Mercutio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 19:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20458085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/80sjuicebox/pseuds/80sjuicebox
Summary: Saint Valentine's Day.





	Honey, let's get married

The ball had been too bright, too proper, too noisy. The Prince stood on the balcony, veiled by the warm darkness of spring in Verona. 

“Celebrations not suited to thy mood, my lord?” Tybalt speaks, the February breeze playfully slipping through his sleeves. 

The Prince hums, thoughtful. “Patience, Tybalt.”

“Beauty floods the room tonight. Care not for a taste?”

“Am I not with one of the fairest stars in all the heaven? Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.” The Prince raises an eyebrow at Tybalt, almost offended, then smiles, genuine and without the touch of mockery Tybalt was oh so used to. Lips tightened and an uneasy swallow, Tybalt could not bring himself to look Mercutio in the eye. His mind scrambled for words, shame rising within. 

“I plead thou not mock me.” 

The Prince takes a sip from his goblet and laughs, the air vibrating. His gaze returns to the bustling activity below. 

“I fear thou will not find jest in my words tonight, dear Tybalt.” His skin drips with gold from the candle flames, his expression set back to neutrality. Tybalt allows himself to stare. Over the years, his mischief and blithe had been tempered, though his scathing wit and sharp tongue never left. Tybalt understood the inevitability. He watched the Prince’s nephew grow into his shoes, going from the boy he once pinned underneath himself play fighting to the one he pinned beneath himself when he was consumed by hurt, by anger, by conflict, to the one pinned under him in the throes of love. 

“Years spent shackled to my side, dost thou not desire a different fate?” The Prince’s expression is hard to read, even to Tybalt. The weight of his words hang in the air, a sudden sour note against Tybalt’s tongue. 

“My lord, such is my duty, as all god’s creations have a role. I’m afraid I do not know what thou asks of me.” To be by thy side as a modest songbird esteems owning the world’s riches and beauties. Trepidation courses through Tybalt’s blood, and he feels he has done something terrible. Unspoken words. Too many between them despite the desperation that both feel scratching against their insides, tongue stubbornly held. To be seen, to be known, to be perceived. Mercutio swirls his goblet, expression unchanging. 

“Say, Tybalt, were I to ask of thee to cease thy knighthood, would I leave tonight with thy blade buried in me again?” A grin arises towards the end of the sentence, a touch of melancholy that only Tybalt could see, and he turns to set his eyes on the knight. Tybalt feels his heart shatter at his feet, though dropped not from his hands, for he didn’t have it in the first place. Once, the first emotion to drown him may have been rage, but now, woe. He searched for something to say, returning empty-handed. Not a drop of wine in him, yet his head swam and nausea pooled. The constant buzz of sated chatter infuriates him in the most childish way. For him to suffer, yet the world goes by unfazed, not a moment spared to mourn with him. His Prince falls through the openings of his clenched fist once again; water he cannot hold, moonlight he cannot keep. 

“My lord, I am no one to act against the Prince’s word. Shall thy wish, will I forbear thy presence.” Tybalt cursed the torment bleeding into his voice, the effort to maintain his composure immense. His body was tense, shoulders almost pulled back in the stance of a wounded beast. Mercutio closes the distance between them, boldness in his stride unfaltering despite Tybalt’s reflexively defensive position. 

“My dear Tybalt, I’m afraid thou hath misunderstood,” He reaches out and takes Tybalt’s hand, who can only stare wide eyed at Mercutio. He braced himself for condemnation, ready for the words to strike him, yet part of him begged that perhaps God was just playing another cruel joke. “Long as the sun is aflame and the moon hangs from the sky, my devotion shan’t cease.” 

“Pray tell,” Mercutio’s finger grazes over Tybalt’s knuckles. “Will thou be Verona’s prince?” 

Tybalt feels as if he’s just been waterboarded. _I am a fool._ He stares stupidly at Mercutio, somehow managing a “I recall not Verona being thy name, Mercutio.” Before their lips crashed against each other. Salvation. Mercutio chuckles against his lips. “Thy visage, like a frightened deer.” Tybalt grunts in response, capturing Mercutio’s lips once more as Mercutio snakes his hand up to the nape of Tybalt’s neck to deepen the kiss. Tybalt relishes in this love selfishly, giving himself up, holding onto Mercutio as if he was the thin line between life and death.  
It took them every ounce of effort to tear themselves away from each other, breathless and dishevelled by love. Mercutio presents a ring from his pocket, and pushes it onto Tybalt’s ring finger. 

“Saint Valentine’s Day. Thou spend too much time with Romeo.” 

“Watch thy tongue, Prince Tybalt.”


End file.
